


Curtains

by OverwatchingYouSleep



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Desperation, Drinking, Forced Domestic Life, Gen, Kidnapping, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverwatchingYouSleep/pseuds/OverwatchingYouSleep
Summary: When it comes to being someone's number one fan, McCree keeps wondering if this is going too far. By the time he got there, he wasn't worried about it anymore.(McCree / Gender Neutral Reader)





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> I do more stuff on my blog @overwatching-you-sleep.tumblr.com

He wished he hadn’t come here. This wasn’t really his scene.

 

But unfortunately, the last seedy bar in town had to go and get itself shut down for having an industrial-sized meth lab in the basement. The only club with a decent selection of alcohol was filled to bursting with 20-somethings getting even more wasted than him (commendable) and trying to bump him out to the dance floor every five minutes. For once, his attire didn’t ward off the other patrons. Instead it worked like a beacon.

 

McCree felt stuck. He was trying to pull himself out of the habit of drinking alone. Sure, alcoholism was depressing in any form, but it seemed like a step above if he wasn’t getting sloshed on whiskey in his apartment. This crowd wasn’t doing anything to want to ease up his drinking. Quite the opposite, he’d almost consider passing out and getting tossed to the sidewalk a good ending in this scenario. These streets weren’t too bad, he might even wake up with only his wallet missing.

 

The bar was crowded, people squeezing between the occupied stools to catch the bartender’s attention. He was already more than a little tired of being elbowed left and right, but he'd be damned if he gave up his spot and had to wait through another 3 minutes of his own elbowing and finger-waving to get another drink. That wasn't the type of drinker he was.

 

He was catching a nice buzz, the pounding bass throughout the club a pleasant rumble to compliment the lightweight feel of his body. The vibrations traveled up the barstool and through his spine, but his mood stayed discontent. He didn't feel like dancing, or socializing either. The longer he sat there, the more out-of-place he felt.

 

The strobe lights around began to flash, meaning the hourly performance was about to begin. The club encouraged local dancers, as if talent agents were lurking somewhere among this crowd, waiting to offer them a contract. McCree had so far been unimpressed with the dancers that took up the raised stage. The music and styles were that of a new age; one he was still young enough to partake in, but was never inclined to.

 

He shook out his shoulders, trying to push off some of the negative fugue that clouded around his head. He’d been nothing but pessimistic all evening. With good reason, maybe, but there wasn’t anything stopping him from heading back home and trying to finish the evening off with some meditation and sleep. His night didn't have to end here, and his moping was solving a lot less than his actions could.

 

He stood and squeezed past the bargoers, trying to push through the throng and out to the doors. The performance had started, a smooth pop tune  taking over the club. It was decades old, more than a little laid back than the music that was usually playing. Not much, but it grabbed his attention. With his hand on the door to the lobby, he turned around to take a look at the stage.

 

He tried to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming, but he couldn't be sure. People like you just didn't exist in real life.

 

_"I wanna love you, I wanna hold you..."_

 

Your body was moved like liquid, every step perfectly coordinated. Not a second of hesitation, not a flicker of effort on your face other than the single drop of sweat that fell from your forehead. You were flawless. Even over the small crowd of heads, he felt like he had the perfect angle to view you from.

 

"Holy shit," he whispered under his breath. He was frozen in the doorway. Someone came up and pushed past him, muttering something foul under their breath, but he couldn't even be bothered. His entire focus was on you.

 

"What's your name?" he asked himself, almost imagining what you'd respond. Your eyes met his, just for a brief moment as you held your position for a beat, but it was enough to make his heart skip two. Love at first sight, something he'd never given much faith in, now seemed plausible.

 

More than that, it was right in front of him.

 

Your performance was over too soon, and you took a moment to wave out to the applauding crowd before turning and running down the catwalk and through the backstage door. Like that, time resumed around him, a new song playing and the audience returning to their dances. But him, he felt like he had just shifted through an entire universe.

 

His palms were sweating when he walked through the lobby and out to the street. The cold rush of air to his face calmed him, keeping him from stumbling out to the street, but he still sweat with barely-contained excitement.

 

Who were you?

 

\--

 

He had to see you again.

 

He had woken up the next morning sober, but his mind was not clear. Instead, it was filled to the brim with images of the dancer at the club that night. He didn't know what about you appealed to him so much. Half of him was convinced that your magic had merely been a fabrication of his drunk imagination, but somehow he couldn't believe that. You had been too radiant. Too real. Whatever you had, he was convinced he hadn't imagined it. And he had to see it again.

 

First came the matter of finding you. In his stupor, he'd been too stupid to ask around for anybody that knew you. He'd merely returned to his apartment and fell asleep to dream of you. Nothing he'd remembered from the night before would lead him any closer to you. So he had to turn to his next resort. The internet.

 

He hated digging through the internet. It wasn't his style of operations and he wasn't sure what keywords would lead him any closer to you. Hundreds of pictures were uploaded from the night club last night over multiple social media outputs, and almost none of them he could see because it wasn't public. He was hitting a lot of dead ends.

 

In a last desperate attempt to find you, he checked the nightclubs actual website for clues. The front page was the usual, pictures of the owner with various celebrities, along with various clubgoers having a good time. He scrolled down to the talent section, hoping to see a list of the daily talent, but what he found instead was far luckier.

 

A picture of you, mid-dance, with your name in the caption underneath.

 

No doubt about it, he couldn't have been so drunk as to mistake your allure. You were every bit the dream he'd thought he saw, and now he knew everything he needed to find you again. Was this weird? He didn't have to think long to conclude that it wasn't. After all, the information had been on a public website, hadn't it?

 

He stared at the picture for a while longer, letting minutes tick by on his clock as he observed every curve of your face, the sculpt of your muscles through your tight tee shirt. The picture was high-quality, but from a distance, and he ached for something up close and personal. Searches of your name didn't bring up much to help at all, and he cursed his phone and threw it back on his end table. He knew he'd soon be back at it, but he needed to let his frustration take over for a minute.

 

At least he knew what to call if he ever saw you again.

 

\--

 

It took two days, but the idea struck him.

 

It seemed pretty obvious in hindsight. The club you had performed at was known for taking in local dancers, so he looked up searches for talent in the area. Everyone knew that the dancing at clubs was really more for social media exposure than any real chance at getting noticed. So, wouldn't it make sense that you'd search for other opportunities to get noticed by actual talent agents? That seemed like the sort of smart move that you'd make.

 

It was difficult. There wasn't much information on this town (the whole reason he was squatting here.) and it seemed that not many people would bother searching out here for talent. Finally, once he found the right keywords, he managed to find one thing. A mini commercial shoot was going on at a local park the next day, and they wanted background actors. You were a dancer, not an actor, but it was the best thing he could find. It was worth checking out.

 

The next day couldn't come quickly enough, especially since he had been frequenting the night club every night in hopes that he'd see you one more time. His lack of success only soured the hangover that hit him the next morning, pounding into his skull before he even opened his eyes. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't leave the apartment at all today. But you were motivation enough.

 

After nursing his hangover with more alcohol, he forced himself out of bed and into clothes. He chose something modest, a button up and jeans, ditching any of his trademark clothing to avoid weirding you out. In the mirror, he straightened up his beard and nabbed a pair of sunglasses to protect his migraine from the bright sun. He barely stopped to grab his key before he exited his shitty apartment building, trotting down the metal staircase and out onto the sidewalk.

 

 The sight of the early morning sun wasn’t common to him. His mornings were more often spent in bed, asleep or wishing he was. He was glad to see that he wasn't missing much, besides bigger crowds and more traffic. Leave it to a mission like finding you to get him out into some fresh air and sunshine.

 

Along the way, his worries hit him again. Wasn't this a strange way of going about a crush? After a few seconds, he decided that it wasn't truly as out of the ordinary as it seemed. He’d just check from a distance. You probably weren’t even there. Though, when the park came into view, all the calming talk he’d given himself was erased, and he occupied himself entirely in his search for the shoot.

 

Fortunately, it wasn’t a big park, so the search didn’t last long at all. There was a small van parked near the pond, decorated with the logo and graphics for some company, but it was the least of his concern. He strayed off the path, looping around the pond and trying to get a view past the van and at the actual shoot.

 

He spotted you among the small crowd immediately. Everyone was crowded together, looking like they were gathering up for a group photo, but even from this distance he could recognize your figure. You shone brighter than everyone else there. For a moment he almost felt lightheaded, staring at you from so far away and still managing to be swept off his feet. You had some sort of magic about you, that was for sure.

 

The crowd began to disperse, all heading back to a small tent for what he assumed was the next part of the audition. Once again, just before you turned away, your eyes met again. His heart rocketed into his throat and back down. You squinted in disbelief, and he shaped his fingers into a heart, but you shook your head and walked back into the tent. His hands sagged, but he excused it. You were probably in a hurry, that was all.

 

Since it was a public space, he reasoned, nobody could shoo him away while he waited for you. One by one, performers came out to show their best acting skills, and he felt his heart swell the more he watched. So an actor and a dancer? How multi-talented you were! You were a personality made for TV, obviously. He felt like he was someone who meets a celebrity before they became famous. If things went how he wanted, he would be by your side even as you rose to stardom. And certainly, someone with your talent will.

 

You came out just as he was drifting off to sleep, immediately drawing him back to full consciousness. The director and other crew mattered none to him now; he wanted to watch you in your element. You glanced at your script once before you tossed it off to a chair on the side, unneeded. The audition was short, you just waved to the camera and went on a small spool about some product, but what an audition it turned out to be. Your bright smile begged for attention; your motions all spoke of careless precision, like you knew exactly what you were doing at all times. Your coordination was flawless. Just like the rest of you.

 

Halfway through the directors critique of your performance, your eyes trailed off to the side, landing on McCree for the second time. Your professional smile turned a bit bittersweet, and you glanced back at him twice before deciding to focus entirely on the director. When you glanced back a third time, a minute later, McCree was gone, sliding back down the other side of the hill with his hands pressed to his face. You were so, so beautiful, and he was fucking it up.

 

He hoped he didn't freak you out too much. He didn't know what he would do if you hired some sort of bodyguard.

 

\--

 

You had skipped town.

 

Whether or not it was because of him or because you had places to be really didn't cross his mind. All he thought about was how desperate he was to find you and keep a close eye on you. To prevent you from slipping from right underneath his nose again, of course. After all, he hadn't expected you to disappear, not when he was still getting to know you. He hadn't planned on saying goodbye so soon, or ever. He was even a little hurt that you'd leave without a word to him, as if you were trying to hurt your number one fan's feelings.

 

Then again, he couldn't deny that things had gone just a bit too far now. McCree was a little bit ashamed of his actions, the way he trawled over your online footprints for hours the night before; searching desperately for where you had gone next. He had made his jackpot on a niche forum, where someone tipped him off to a show in a town twenty miles away that was searching for dancers of your description. Not a solid lead, but one nonetheless, and he'd follow any lead to the ends of the Earth.

 

The venue was relatively small, a dance studio holding dance auditions for a much bigger show, later in the year. For someone as ambitious about their career as you, you had to be here. McCree could feel the tickle in his heart that he swore he felt when you were near. Without much of anyone to stop him, he entered the dance studio and made his way to the floor.

 

From the doorway, he watched a girl finish her audition and stand there in her final pose, chest rising and falling as she sucked in breath and waited for the judge's verdict. Boring. He directed his eyes to the back wall, where a line of people stood with numbers taped to their chests, all watching their competition with equal parts admiration and observation. A learning opportunity to their trained eye. When you came on the stage, all McCree saw was magnificence that he couldn't place words to.

 

Of course you could. You were just so talented.

 

He laid eyes on you a second after you laid eyes on him, and he couldn't have prepared himself for the furious look on your face. You glanced at the judges, making sure they were distracted with the current audition before standing and tip-toeing along the back wall, approaching him at the door and stepping out to the waiting area.

 

"What are you doing here?" you demanded, whipping around to face him. He had an idiotic smile on his face, something that even your bitterness couldn't wipe off now that he had you within an arms reach. You were so close, he could observe the finer details of your face, your hair, your clothes. You were every bit as beautiful in front of him as you were on the stage, and now he knew that he wasn't putting you on a pedestal. You were a human to him, and yet you were still perfect.

 

"Hello?" you questioned, waving your hand in front of his face to catch his attention. He was completely zoned out, staring at you all dreamy-like. His obsession with you was starting to border on the creepy, and you were coming to the conclusion that maybe having a "number one fan" isn't as cool or as fun as it sounds. You were annoyed, your number would be up in the next 10 to 15 minutes, and you wanted no distractions, especially not this guy to cheer you on. "How'd you even find me?"

 

"Hm," he hummed, his grin dopey and wide, "Funny story."

 

You had only seen him before from a distance. You had never expected him to be so fast, or ballsy. Right in the middle of the waiting room, where anybody could walk past at any second, he had seized you and brought you to his chest in a chokehold, pressing a wet rag to your nose. You weren't stupid, and you weren't about to become such an unlikely victim. You opened your mouth to scream, and the rag touched your tongue, the harsh tang of the chloroform making you gag too violently for any other reaction.

 

"Shh." Your struggles seemed to be nothing against him; he was like a mountain behind you. What did this guy do for a living that he could completely dwarf your strength without effort or care?

 

"Shh."  The chloroform began to surge through your system, your eyelids getting heavy and your breath slowing down against your will. You were losing consciousness, the only form of fight left in you a weak protest against the oppressing rag.

 

"Shh." Your head sagged, and his hold on your neck relinquished, leaving you lying on the floor. The last thing you saw before passing out entirely was McCree stepping over you and closing the studio doors.


	2. After

"You're not gonna eat?"

 

The question was a precarious mix between honest and rhetorical. He knew what your answer would be, before it even left his mouth, but he still hoped that maybe his gentle tone would convince you otherwise. You looked at the plate in front of you, homemade chicken stir-fry fresh from the stove, and tried to ignore the vicious cramps in your stomach.

 

"I'm not hungry," you whispered. He sighed and slammed his fork on his plate, the bang echoing throughout the otherwise silent home. Rather than explode, like you half expected him to do, he just put his hand over his mouth and stared at the middle of the table, hiding whatever thoughts he was having behind his bangs.

 

"You're never hungry," he said into his hand.

 

"That's right," you said. He looked up at you, looking ready to chide you. He settled instead for patience.

 

"Is it the food?" he asked. You shook your head, eyebrows arched meticulously. "Is it...me?" You rolled your eyes and plopped your chin in your hand, staring off into the living room without pause. For a moment, the dining room only buzzed with the whirr of the ceiling fan circling lazily overhead. Then, his chair squeaked along the linoleum tiles, and he was circling around the table towards you. The sweat on your lip felt twice as cold when he put his hand on your shoulder.

 

"You have to eat," he tried, bringing his fingers under your chin and trying to guide you to face him. When you didn't budge, he grabbed your entire jaw and turned your head forward. "You have to eat, come on."

 

You didn't fight against him, and within seconds he let your head go and instead went to your food, grabbing a forkful and guiding it to your lips. He genuinely thought force-feeding you was going to work. Your lips didn't part, and the fork stopped there, unable to move forward. He prodded once or twice, and you leaned back. He sighed and took the bite for himself.

 

"See! It's good, it's not drugged or nothing." He brought the fork back down and scooped another bite, raising it to your lips. "It's delicious, and I know you're hungry. I'm not trying to kill you."

 

"No," you mumbled, trying not to open your mouth too much. "You're just trying to keep me prisoner." His arm slacked, fork falling away as he physically sagged beside you.

 

"Please tell me you don't think of it like that," he said. You shook your head and pushed the fork away entirely.

 

"I'm stuck here against my will," you told him, looking him directly in his face. How could such a monster have such warm, genuine eyes?  "Don't you think that makes me a prisoner?"

 

"Well," he started, looking over at the kitchen window, long since paved over with reinforced steel. "I don't let you out because I can't trust you not to run, right?"

 

"Because," you drawled out, trying to punctuate your point, "I am here against my will."

 

"It doesn't have to be that way," he pressed, taking your hands in his and holding them to his chest. You tried to pull them back, but he held tight.

 

"What did you think would happen?" you asked him, trying to avoid looking right into his eyes, near wet with hurt. "That I’d magically love you after all was said and done? Because I don’t!”

"You don't know that." He's desperate. You can't believe you were so blind as to not realize it before. This man was lonely beyond anything else, and became a kidnapping psychopath out of his desperation. Maybe if you were watching this as a news story, you might feel a little sympathetic for him. Not now that you knew the reality of what "desperation" can do to a person.

 

"I think I do," you tell him, turning back to your food. It really does look good, but you can't think that. If your stomach growls when he's close enough to hear, it'll just be more reason for him to shove food in your face. You couldn't take much more of the smell of it; your self-preservation might be close to beating your stubbornness.

 

"Just let me in," he said, getting down to his knees to meet your eyes. He seemed so much more empathetic than you knew him to be. "I'm a good man, I'll love you like you deserve, darlin'."

 

"I don't want anything to do with any type of love you have to offer me." You pushed him away from you and stood up, parting from the table and retreating from your third day without eating. He followed you into the living room, hot on your heels.

 

"Wait, wait." He cut off your path from the living room to your bedroom, standing in the entrance to the hall with his hands raised pleadingly. _"Let's talk,"_ they said. He was trying to soothe you as though you were the beast. He had nerve to act so civil. "What's even so bad about living here with me? Tell me and I'll change it."

 

"Wow," you droned, ignoring the heartfulness behind his words. "You're pathetic, Jesse." Those words alone seemed enough to break his heart, hands shaking as they lowered to his sides. Ashamed.

 

"I love you," he said, like an excuse. An explanation for his behavior. You shook your  head.

 

"You don't love m-"

 

"I fucking LOVE you," he cut you off, grasping your upper arms and pulling you close to him. You pulled away and his hands chased after you, trying to get hold of your shirt, anything to bring you closer. "I do. I swear to God, Christ Almighty, I love you."

 

His fingers found purchase on your shirt, tugging you in close for him to envelope you in a massive hug. The air around was warm and heavy, stinking of his cigar smoke and cologne. It was near suffocating but he didn't let up on you any. His hands slid up and down your back, rubbing little circles over your spine.

 

"Don't doubt my love, darlin'," he told you, leaning down and planting a kiss on your forehead. So affectionate. Normal. You closed your eyelids to squeeze the tears out of your ducts. "Sometimes, I think I love you so much I can't even breathe without you."

 

He held you like that for a while, ignoring your occassional muffled complaint or more constant wriggles in his grip. He seemed to be content to stand there, rocking you back and forth, ignoring everything going on around him and just focus on the fact that he had you in his arms, through forced means or not. What did it matter? He had you, and nobody would ever find you, and he won in that regard no matter how much you resisted him.

 

He broke the silence first. "Let me prove to you that I love you." He finally allowed you to pull away and breathe, the sudden intake of fresh air enough to upset your empty stomach. His hand found it over your shirt, caressing your torso where your stomach spasmed with hunger pains. He looked as hurt as you felt. "What will it take to make you happy?"

 

"Let me dance." You don't know why you decided to give him an upright answer. So far you had thought the morality of this was already clear to him, that he knew he was a horrible person for stealing you away. But that obviously wasn't true. You tried to avoid explaining it to him, these baby steps to spell out basic human concepts like "kidnapping is bad." He was obviously smart, just deluded by something. Not love, like he claims, but something.

 

"Of course," he told you, letting you go with obvious reluctance and sliding around you out to the living room. You watched him move the coffee table out of the way, the lamp tucked behind the couch, and all the furniture rearranged to maximize your space. Your heart panged in some place, telling you that you've never seen someone go so out of their way to make you happy, but you snubbed it out like a cigarette under your boot. You weren't even going to entertain that thought.

 

"Here," he said, finally, once the room was prepared. You looked around at his work, taking a moment to let it sink in, then looked at him expectantly. He blinked once, then it hit him and he nearly fell over himself turning. "Right, right, sorry."

 

He fiddled with the stereo, flicking through songs on his playlist until he came across one he deemed suitable. The same song that had played at the show that started it all, when he laid eyes on you for the first time. He turned to you expectantly as the first notes boomed, Estelle’s voice flowing through the living room.

_"I wanna love you, I wanna hold you, I wanna kiss you, I wanna hug you…”_

“See?” he said, pushing his hair out of his eyes and looking right at you. To him, this looked perfect. “You can still dance.”

 

You stared blankly at the stereo, his pitiful attempt and making this seem like it’s okay. Like everything can be the same as it was before he ripped you away from your life. You weren’t buying it for one second.

 

“Where’s my audience?” you asked him, accusatory and harsh. He froze in place. Your anger drove you forward, you pointed at the living room around you.“Where’s my stage? My costume? Where are my lights?”

 

“You don’t need those to dance,” he said, obviously distressed. You didn't care.

 

"My stage crew? My director? Where is it?" He didn't have an answer for you. For a moment you held his eyes, resonating as much hate as you could, making sure he felt it even all the way across the room.

 

“I’m not just a dancer," you said, voice cold and poisonous. “I’m a performer, asshole.”

 

He didn’t know how to respond to that. His mouth hung open slightly, struggling to meet your hard gaze before finally giving up and settling on the floor. You stared at him a little longer, making sure he really got it before turning and trying to go back to your room.

 

"I'll do it."

 

You froze in place. Your heart had leaped from your chest up into your throat in a second flat, and it had begun to swell with something you hadn't felt since he locked you up in here a week ago. Something you forbid yourself from letting him give you, through lies or anything else.

 

Hope.

 

"What?" you asked him, not turning around. He started to approach you, slow steps, obviously trying not to scare you.

 

"I said I'll do it," he said. He was behind you. He reached his arm out, gently touching your shoulder, turning you around to face him. You let him. You had to know if he was offering you what you thought.

 

"You mean...?"

 

"You'll have your stage," he told you, no longer reluctant to state into your eyes. Confident in his course of action. "Your director and your crew and your audience. You'll have it all."

 

Your empty stomach elated. "You're letting me go?" you asked, breathless. He blinked, confusion contorting his features, and you realize quickly that you were both on competely different lines of thought.

 

"No," he said, grabbing onto your shoulders and pulling you in close. You were too stunned to even push back. "No, no, of course not."

 

He took your hand in his and began to spin you around the living room, a sloppy waltz that made you dizzy on top of your heart plummeting back into your stomach. McCree leaned down and pressed his lips to your neck, kissing away any traces of your previously stored hope.

 

"I'll do all that stuff for you," he whispered, french dipping you until you hovered a mere inch from the floor. A display of strength, just as much as it was romance. He planted a kiss on your jawline. "Whatever it takes to make you happy."

 


End file.
